


The View From Below

by Beth H (bethbethbeth)



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Central Park, Gen, Junior S.H.I.E.L.D. Agents, M/M, Original Character POV, Post-Movie, Semi-Evil Pink Robotic Squirrels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/pseuds/Beth%20H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her first real day off since starting with S.H.I.E.L.D., Megan McIntyre, a young agent, gets a new perspective on the organization and on two 'above her paygrade' colleagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The View From Below

**Author's Note:**

> _Just dipping my toe into the Clint/Phil waters, with a longer work on the horizon._

In theory, S.H.I.E.L.D. is expected to comply with labor laws governing things like time off and reasonable compensation for hours served. In practice, well, once your superiors start using phrases like "in the best interest of planetary security," you can assume that for the foreseeable future, you're going to be technically on duty for every one of your waking hours and, quite likely, more than a few of your sleeping hours as well.

It wasn't like the realities of working for S.H.I.E.L.D. had come as a surprise to me. I'd done my research on the agency (to the extent that you can research any super-secret organization), and I was fully prepared to say 'yes' when one of their recruiters approached me during my final university fencing match and offered me a place at the Academy upon successful completion of my degree. I was finishing a double major in Linguistics and Criminal Psychology at the time, and even in my Freshman year, there had been whispered rumors on our campus about both departments being fertile scouting grounds for young people who'd nurtured childhood dreams of someday being secret agents. By the time I had the probationary contract in my hand, I understood completely what I'd be signing on for.

Or at least I understood what the job _itself_ would entail. 

Because, see...the lack of any non-work related social structure at S.H.I.E.L.D. (no in-house fantasy baseball leagues or Friday potluck lunches, at least not that I'd noticed so far), the long workdays when civilization was under threat from power-mad aliens or super-villains (i.e., days ending with the letter 'y'), and a personal skill set that didn't include any particular talent for scoping out the best sources of valuable office gossip pretty much guaranteed it was going to be some time before I had a chance of being more than casual workplace acquaintances with any of my new colleagues.

Not that there would even _be_ time to try and make friends for quite a while, as it turned out.

* * *

I completed my preliminary S.H.I.E.L.D. training in April of 2012.

Two weeks later, I was assigned (inexplicably, I thought at the time) to the recently commissioned Helicarrier. At the risk of sounding big-headed, I had actually done phenomenally well at the academy - better in most areas than the majority of my class - but as far as I or any of my classmates knew, the Helicarrier was most likely to be used in the event of a war, and unless that war involved criminally insane aliens or something equally ridiculous, it was unlikely that my academic background was going to be of any particular use.

I'd barely unpacked when a criminally insane alien (feel free to call him a god if it makes you feel better) appeared on the scene and that put an end to even the pretense that any of us would be getting any rest any time soon. The Chitauri attack was over in just a few days, but the repercussions (which included a few minor skirmishes with two or three opportunistic non-alien super-villains) took months to settle. 

It was the end of September before I was given my first full day off with no responsibilities whatsoever. Miraculously, it was one of those perfect autumn days, when the leaves are just starting to turn, and the sun shines brightly in a sky that's a brilliant shade of blue.

I bought something to drink at a deli on Broadway, then headed up to Central Park, relatively empty now that the kids were back in school and the summer tourists had gone back home. I wandered past the zoo and the Boathouse, before heading off the beaten path until I finally reached a perfect - and _private_ \- spot. I took off my denim jacket and spread it out on the grass. Then, setting my bottle of Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey next to me, I put in my ear buds, set my "Not Too Young For Punk" playlist to start, and closed my eyes.

Before Patti Smith had finished singing "Break It Up," I was asleep.

* * *

I woke up to silence. 

The playlist had ended, and I was just about to sit up, when I realized a little worriedly that I was no longer entirely alone in the clearing. No more than twenty feet away, leaning against the trunk of a tree, sat a thin, middle-aged man wearing a faded blue baseball cap and a shapeless black University of Iowa sweatshirt that seemed just a little too big to have belonged to him originally.

An open paperback rested on his thigh, but he wasn't reading it; in fact it looked as if the man's eyes were almost closed. Probably he was just a New Yorker with an unexpected day off, like me, who'd decided to come to the park and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. Whatever his story was, he didn't exactly seem like a threat or anything, and I was considering whether or not to say 'hi' to the guy, when all at once, I heard a strange rustling in the branches above the dozing man's head.

The rustling was quiet - I could barely hear it from where I lay - but something told me that whatever was up in those branches was way too heavy to be anything that actually _belonged_ up in a tree. Working for S.H.I.E.L.D had probably made me paranoid, but just to be on the safe side, I slid my hand inside my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the barrel of my still-new Glock 23, just moments before a second man - this one wearing black jeans and a tight sleeveless t-shirt - dropped from the tree.

Thank god I held off on taking the shot, because the older man's only response to this unexpected arrival was to glance up and smile.

Christ.

I hadn't recognized the seated man until this moment, but now, seeing him next to his companion, Agent Clint Barton (because _god_ , anybody who'd seen the Avengers on the news even a couple times this past summer would have recognized those amazing arms), I most definitely did.

The other man - the seated man - was Agent Phillip Coulson.

Coulson.

There were so many terrifying rumors about him among the junior agents that he'd become a _legend_ , and that was even _before_ he practically died and then returned from the dead.

He hadn't seemed like a threat? 

I was an idiot. 

Agent Coulson was definitely a threat.

I concentrated on not moving a muscle and hoped I had somehow succeeded in turning myself invisible.

"Got a present for you, Phil."

I watched through barely open eyelashes, praying that Barton wasn't referring to _me_ as Agent Coulson arched one eyebrow. "And what would that be, Clint?"

"Here, catch," Barton said, tossing the first of what looked to be an identical pair of unusually large, pink robotic squirrels into Agent Coulson's hands. "I found these two up there, probably left over from Doom's last attack. I think these guys were trying to set up housekeeping together."

Coulson inspected his gift, then set it down on the ground beside him and looked back at Barton. "No heartfelt pleas on behalf of free and equal nesting rights for semi-evil pink robotic squirrels?"

"Yeah, I might have spoken in their defense, but then _this_ one," he said, holding his unmoving squirrel by the tail, "took a bite out of me."

Coulson frowned. "Are you all right? Are you going to need stitches?"

"Nah, it wasn't much of a bite. I don't think his little pink robotic heart was in it."

"And you were able to disarm it?"

Barton sat down next to Coulson, cross legged, his left knee resting lightly against the other man's thigh and nodded. "Both of them, yeah. So, look...do you need to get back to base, or do you maybe want to stick around here for awhile?"

"We should get these logged in," Agent Coulson said, as he put first one robot squirrel, then the other into a brown leather backpack that lay on the ground just to his left. "On the other hand, there's still at least another hour of sunshine left this afternoon."

"Right," Barton said encouragingly. "Plus, you're probably still worn out from the walk over from Fifth, aren't you?"

"It was the equivalent of three blocks, Clint."

"Yeah, three _long_ blocks though, right? Wouldn't want to do anything to set your recovery back; the doc would probably take it out on me."

Agent Coulson smiled. "And we wouldn't want _that_ to happen, would we?"

"Nope. Plus, if we head back to HQ now, Fury will probably call you in for a debrief, even though it's supposed to be your day off. A _long_ debrief. Probably make you do paperwork, too. _Lots_ of paperwork." 

Coulson laughed.

(He _laughed_ , and if you'd asked me earlier that day, I would have said it was unlikely that you'd find anybody on the Helicarrier who would have been willing to take a bet that Agent Coulson even knew what a laugh _was_ )

"I'm getting exhausted just thinking about it," he said.

"Yeah, _that's_ the right attitude," Barton said, before tugging gently on Coulson's sleeve. "How about you lie down here for a little while, just long enough to build up your faded strength for the long trek back."

"You know," Coulson said, "It wouldn't take much of my faded strength to write you up for being a smart ass."

"Pretty sure that's not officially against regs, Phil."

"I'm pretty sure it _could_ be by first thing tomorrow morning," Coulson replied blandly, but he let Agent Barton pull him down until he was supine, the back of his head resting on Barton's thigh.

Then Barton took a deep breath and placed the palm of his left hand over Coulson's chest, and the expression on Barton's face was so gentle and so unutterably tender that I knew if I watched them for even five seconds longer, I was going to start to cry.

I let my eyes close all the way and settled in to wait for them to leave the park.

When I woke for the second time that afternoon, the sun was just about to set over the treeline and I was alone.

* * *

Three days later, I was sitting by myself in the crowded break room, translating a mission brief for one of our counterparts in Europe, when Agents Coulson and Barton walked in. I had _never_ seen them in the break room, and neither had any of my colleagues, judging by the way the quiet buzz of conversation in the room instantly became at least one (nervous) octave higher.

They headed straight for me.

Barton grinned, then set down a cold bottle of Arizona Green Tea with Ginseng and Honey on the table in front of me.

"Good to see you looking so rested, Agent McIntyre," said Coulson.

It was all I could do to keep from burying my face in my hands from sheer embarrassment. How could I have imagined that two experienced agents wouldn't have noticed somebody even a little familiar lying down so close to them in a public place?

"Good afternoon, sir," I said, my voice as steady as I could manage. "Um...sirs."

Oh yeah, that was smooth, I thought, but Barton just kept grinning, and unless I was completely delusional (which...wasn't entirely out of the question), there was the barest hint of something that might pass in some alternate universe for a smile on Coulson's face as well.

"I'm afraid you might have to tear yourself away from your current duties for the foreseeable future, agent," Coulson said. "There's an upcoming mission - one that requires, among other things, a high degree of discretion, something for which you're clearly eminently qualified."

Which had to mean, I suddenly realized, that the two of them had probably just been amusing themselves for the past few days, waiting to see whether I was going to say anything about their relationship to anybody.

"Stop by my office at 10:00 tomorrow morning if you've got an opening in your schedule so I can fill you in on the details."

Had Coulson seriously just asked me if I thought I'd be _free_ to meet with one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highest ranking agents about an actual mission, something almost nobody's _ever_ sent on in their first year?

"I'll be there, sir," I said instantly.

"Good. Until tomorrow, agent," he said, then he and Barton left the break room.

Together.

Of course.

You'd think a roomful of secret agents, even ones as relatively inexperienced as most of us were, would be able to do a better job of hiding their curiosity, but no, I could almost _feel_ the none-too-surreptitious glances they were directing my way.

They were going to want some kind of explanation from me about how I'd drawn the attention of the famous Agent Coulson, and yeah, I was going to have to come up with something to tell them in the next few minutes, but what I wouldn't be telling them was anything approaching the truth. 

I turned around and shared what I hoped would look like a conspiratorial and welcoming grin with one of the guys from my graduating class, and waited the seven seconds it took for him to join me at my table.

And then I gave silent thanks to Anna - my older, sharp-nailed sister, with whom I shared a bedroom until she went away to college - for having trained me so diligently, albeit so painfully, in the fine art of keeping other people's secrets.


End file.
